Chapter I

The Fallen Angel Series

THE DEAL

by S C Cunningham

Chapter 1

THE DEAL

Dear Heavens, I was taken by a bad man, I got away,

but the next girl didn’t.

If I promise to be a good girl, when I die,

can I sit on a cloud for a while,

be invisible, and get the baddies that

you and the Police don’t get?

Amy Fox, age 4 yrs.

Dear Heavens, thank you for keeping our deal.

But WTF…really!

Haven’t we got enough to deal with?

I get we’re just physics Erthfolk don’t understand yet,

but if criminals don’t play by the rules,

then why the hell should we?

What’ya gonna do? Kill me?

I’m already dead.

Amy Fox, age 32 yrs.

Brompton South Police Station, London, UK

The door to the custody interview suite burst open. The warm stench of cannabis, disinfectant, and rancid carpet hit Detective Constable Tony DeAngelo’s face as he stepped into the dark, soundproofed box-room.

He flicked a switch. Harsh fluorescent light bounced off grey walls, worn flooring, and cheap brown office furniture. No windows, no pictures, no comfort in this room. It was a place to confess, to tell lies or remain silent. Soaked heavy in confession and deceit, it’d heard it all.

An empty desk sat tucked up against the wall on the left, flanked with four plastic bucket chairs, two either side. A wall-bracketed touchscreen computer protruded at head height over the desk. A CCTV player and screen sat on a cupboard against the opposing wall.

DeAngelo held the door open for the prisoner to enter. The waft of stale sweat, semen, and a night in the cells hit DeAngelo’s nostrils as the slovenly male shuffled past him.

DeAngelo took shallow breaths, grateful for the strong-smelling nasal gel he wiped across his top lip prior to interview. The pine fresh vapours prevented retching when dealing with his less hygienic suspects. Especially when three or four bodies - Solicitors, Appropriate Others, Interpreters - squeezed into the airless room, got hot and bothered during questioning.

“Sit on the other side of the desk, please, sir. Your Legal Advisor, Mr. Maydew, will sit beside you.”

DeAngelo pointed across the desk at the chair against the wall.

“Have you been here before, sir?”

The prisoner shuffled around the desk, pulled out the chair and manoeuvred his large frame into the seat. He grunted and shook his head; he wasn’t used to being called ‘sir.’

“No,” he mumbled, his hooded gaze darting and scanning the space around him.

Above the table, a red plastic strip sat at shoulder height: a panic alarm. He would have to get passed his Legal Advisor and the Investigator to get to the door, and then tackle five or six Custody staff and three coded doors to get out of the station. No chance.

“Well, I’ll explain it to you once we’re seated. Are you comfortable? Do you want water?”

“No.”

The prisoner closed his eyes and rocked his head back. For twenty years he’d managed to live undetected, below the radar. What the hell had gone wrong?

Immaculately suited and booted, Mr. Maydew flounced into the room, full of pomp and self-importance, his nose twitching at the sour odour emanating from his client. He plonked his shiny leather briefcase noisily on the table, dragged his chair away, as far as was polite, and sat beside the prisoner.

“My client would like to move cells,” he announced. “It’s disgusting. He’s been kept awake by the occupant in the next cell all night, shouting, banging, and—”

“This is not a hotel, Mr. Maydew,” interrupted DeAngelo with a sigh.

Maydew was a regular Legal Advisor in Brompton South Custody, a known complainer; he liked to show off in front of his clients and use whatever means possible to upset the rhythm of an interview, in an effort to change the power dynamics, but he just managed to piss everyone off. And DeAngelo sometimes wondered if his legal advice was sound.

“And now he has started a dirty protest. Excrement has been smeared everywhere. The stench is disgusting. My client needs to be moved…for his asthma.” Maydew noisily banged the tip of his black ballpoint pen on the table between them. “I demand it.”

DeAngelo calmly closed the door and seated himself opposite the prisoner. He placed a black file on the desk and reached up to the touchscreen. He tapped the start button and started to log into the interview system.

“Did you hear me, Officer?” The black pen tapped in time with his words. “I demand a move for my client.”

DeAngelo carried on, entering information to the screen.

“Right, sir.” He looked at the prisoner, ignoring Maydew. “You’ll notice that on the wall and ceiling above us are microphones and cameras. This interview will be digitally recorded and given as evidence should the matter go to court. I can give you a copy of...”

“Will you talk to the Custody Sergeant about a move?” insisted Maydew, increasing the pressure on his drumming pen, not liking being ignored.

DeAngelo looked the prisoner in the eye, paying no attention to Maydew, and continued.

“After the interview, I can give you a form, which tells you how to get a copy of the interview, should you wish. You’re entitled to free and independent legal advice—in person or via the telephone—throughout your stay in custody.”

The prisoner wasn’t paying attention. He dropped his hands to his lap and absent-mindedly scratched the skin of his forearms. DeAngelo wondered if he was suffering from drug withdrawal.

“I see you’ve taken legal advice. Are you happy with the advice you’ve been given?”

The prisoner’s eyes shifted to the pompous man sitting beside him. He gave a resigned tilt of his head and nodded. The two men couldn’t be more different.

“Are you happy to continue?” asked DeAngelo.

The prisoner nodded, staring into his lap, watching nails tear into skin.

“If you would like to stop the interview at any time and confer with your advisor, let me know, we can—”

“The stench is disgusting,” interrupted Maydew. “Shit everywhere…I could smell it from the disclosure room.” Incessantly tapping his pen, a spoilt little boy trying to get attention.

“I will see if the Honeymoon Suite is available after the interview, Mr. Maydew. Now, if you please, let us continue.”

The prisoner sniggered.

DeAngelo punched the final setup details onto the screen.

“Very funny,” tutted Maydew indignantly, reaching over the table and waving his pen at DeAngelo. “I will report you, DC DeAngelo.”

DeAngelo ignored the threat, lined his file neatly in front of him, and focused on the prisoner.

“Once I start the recording, I’ll introduce each of us in the room. I’ll caution you, and then explain the caution. I’ll then ask you why you are here today, giving you an opportunity to put your side of events forward.”

The prisoner nodded, sweat gathering on his top lip.

“I ask that you speak up for the benefit of the recording, so that you can be heard. I also ask that you don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, that you listen to my question, and in turn I’ll listen to your answer and not interrupt you, do you understand?”

The prisoner squeezed his hands together, in an effort to stop the scratching, and nodded.

“Right, are you ready?”

The prisoner nodded again.

“Are you ready, Mr. Maydew?”

“Yes, yes, yes… Let’s get this over with, and then I’ll have words with the Custody Sergeant,” grumbled Maydew with a wave of his pen.

“You know the protocol, Mr. Maydew. I assume your phone is turned off.”

“Err…no…actually…err.” Maydew blustered as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a phone. He fumbled clumsily with buttons, trying to turn it off. “Damn this bloody thing!”

DeAngelo caught the prisoner’s eye; they gave each other a mutual look of annoyance at Maydew’s antics.

Maydew finally succeeded in silencing his phone and slipped it back, out of sight, into his pocket. “Yes, yes…it’s off. Now go ahead. Let’s get on with it, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, as if it were DeAngelo’s fault.

“Thank you. I will now start the interview.” DeAngelo pressed the recording button; the screen lit up with a timer.